


Call for the Priest

by BlueDreams



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Blood, Gen, Prequel, Religion, graphic images coming later, minor language and cultural differences, things get scummy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueDreams/pseuds/BlueDreams
Summary: A short story on Grigori and Ravenholm's downfall before Gordon's introduction





	Call for the Priest

Grigori thought little of the Combine. He had enough experience of living under oppressive laws. A child of the Soviet Union, he learned to speak carefully even under the Glasnost policy. Not just for his sake, but for his family’s. So when this colossal boot planted itself on his homeland, he was already aware of the pain it would bring.

The town’s history with avoiding confrontation gave it a healthy lifeline, as the Civil Protection had little fun beating up stoic faces no matter how fresh or dried up the blood was. Any cries of pain had to be limited and reserved for the privacy of their homes.

Though quiet in public, Grigori felt an obligation to make life as miserable for the Combine as possible. During the night, he would stay up to decorate buildings with hooks, saws, and scrapped blades to unnerve the fickle police. This ripple effect encouraged more citizens to build contraptions as road-blocks in case armored vehicles would storm in. All of the dissatisfaction in this tiny town eventually led the Combine away until there was virtually no presence. _Virtually_ none.

For a time, the town was off the radar from everyone outside. Many of the tender hearted citizens, however, Grigori included, wanted to take advantage of this peace by covertly spreading word to nearby resistance stations that it was a safe place for refugees. Grigori and others understood this risk, and he felt a pull to be the one to do so. Being childless while others were raising the final generation of humanity, he felt it was necessary to be independent and to be a sort of missionary for those craving sanctuary. 

It was a frightening endeavor at first traveling to alien-infested areas, especially with the headcrabs shrieking from every and any corner. But his senses developed greatly and he learned he only needed to pack fewer shells for his gun each travel. Each of these trips to uncertain areas made him memorize safe passages back home, furthering his survival skills. His increasingly grizzled, confident face likewise made strangers more comfortable in trusting his message of asylum from a fatal region. 

His initial speeches were clunky as these new faces were increasingly foreign, mainly American. Some mild discomfort aside, it didn’t get to him, but he spoke very little English. To help him clarify his words, a stranger offered some help. 

A knock was heard outside the Orthodox church he used as a home for asylum seekers. He got up after delivering soup to a dirt-covered teenager and walked over. His body was lean and sturdy from careful rationing and travelling, short black hair that was adequately trimmed, and a surprisingly smooth face despite all that he had seen for decades. 

He opened the door without considering any threat, and he saw a blonde woman appear on the doorstep with a worn-out book clutched to her chest.

“Hello, Father,” she spoke with a calm yet strained inflection. “The town said I should help you with your English. May I come in?”  
“Ah! Yes, come!” His hands patted her arms as he smiled mirthfully. “Seat?”  
“Oh, I wanted this lesson to be private.” Her voice was very soft and young, clearly a woman, but her age was betrayed by the haggard expression she wore even when she smiled. Wrinkles across her face, bags under her eyes, unusually skinny even for the already malnourished citizens. “Is there a room we can use?”  
“Back?” He pointed to the opposite side of the church with wide-eyed curiosity.  
“Yes, thank you.” She simpered and had her head down as if to bow.

His confident, lively amble was followed by her cautious, weary walking. She took the time to admire the interior of the church, with beautiful mosaics and architecture she had never seen before. She assumed this place had a large part in keeping this man so optimistic in these horrid times.

He opened a door for her and made an exaggerated bow to make the westerner feel at home, which did get her to smile despite its faintness. They sat down on small wooden chairs within the small room, and the woman opened up the book. She methodically turned the pages until she spotted the right passage for him.

Throughout the lesson, she tried to make him understand articles like ‘the’ as well as specific words to help his talks with rebels such as landmarks and cardinal directions. She was pleasantly surprised how quickly he was taking in all of this in such a short span of time.

“You’re making good progress, Father.”  
“Thank you! But call Grigori. No sermons now.”  
“Got it.” She chuckled gently.  
“You now.” She looked at him blankly, causing him to rethink. “Err. Your name.”  
“Oh. You can call me Anne.”  
“Anne! Beautiful woman’s name! When is next lesson, Anne?”  
“How does tomorrow sound?”  
“Very good. I will see you then. Be healthy, Anne.”

She nodded sluggishly and walked into the main church interior. Grigori had a light around him from how well he took the lessons, but he kept thinking about Anne. So frail and famished, undoubtedly had experienced a rough life, but she was set on making him learn more. He admired that diligence, reminding him of his own tireless duty toward Ravenholm. There was a melancholy in her that he felt deeply for, especially when she tried to show her placid joy. 

He was conscious enough to know that things may never be ‘good’ and that guaranteeing things becoming better was not much more helpful. But he held a sincere faith in the one force he knew that could defeat the Combine, and that those with the courage to face these sinful tyrants would soon live the life they were meant to have.

But for now, he focused on his English, his messages, and his survival. He had to be a source for hope, which to his credit, he was getting better at. More citizens arrived to fulfill needed mining jobs or cultural upholding, making the town flourish as a Mecca for underground communication that bolstered the resistance while remaining under the radar. A sense of paranoia would not leave him, however, that this prosperity would be noticed by too many. And that the Combine would catch them while they are at their most complacent.


End file.
